


Warmth

by IttyBittyBkr



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Sharing a Bed, crowley is cold a lot, did they fuck after the ritz? up to you!, sleepy demon times, theres a lil angst but its very soft by the end cross my heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23203921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IttyBittyBkr/pseuds/IttyBittyBkr
Summary: Time went on, the questions kept coming, and the apocalypse drew closer and closer. The antichrist was born, raised, lost, found, and finally grounded, and the world kept turning as it always had.Except, Crowley woke upwarm.It wasn’t how he thought it would be. The demon had always assumed it would just be the sensation of being warm, but this was far better. This was contentment. Happiness. The world had been saved and he was finally allowed to be with the love of his existence (who loved him back, somehow, and that alone had prompted a silent prayer of thanks for the first time in a very long time).i couldn't get the thought of crowley waking up warm for the first time out of my head so - here you go
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 176





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in a Very Short amount of time so excuse any spelling mistakes or grammatical issues!

Crowley woke up warm. 

That may seem insignificant to some, but for the last six thousand years of his existence he had woken up with a chill. It was the sort of bone-numbing cold that couldn’t be banished with two or three or five blankets, nor with hot water bottles or heating pads. Even a dip into an active volcano didn’t lessen the chill (That simply _burned_. As he learned long before Time existed there was a difference between warmth and burning; for example, the warmth of Her love and grace filling him impossibly full versus the searing, _burning_ pain of the sulfur pit he had fallen into when She decided he was no longer worthy). 

After the trip to Hell for a new body, he gave up trying to be warm. It was another way She was punishing him, he realized. Cursed to be a serpent, cursed to be helplessly in love with what he can’t have, cursed to be cold all the time. 

He wondered, halfway through a crate of shit wine in the late 18th century, if She would ever forgive him for daring to ask a few questions. When he woke up practically in the fireplace and still shaking he decided that no, She wouldn’t. Despite being no longer connected to Her the way he had been, Crowley would still give her his opinions, his questions - usually when he was drunk and his frustration with everything was about to rip him apart at the seams. The night before had been one of Those nights. After finishing the crate and another few bottles, he had paced the room and shot question after question off at her. 

_Why do you let the humans suffer? What could they have possibly done to deserver it? I know your whole ‘plan’ revolves around testing them over and over but for Hell’s sake, when does it end? Why won’t you talk to them? Why won’t you talk to the angels anymore? Why won’t you talk to me? Why did - what did I do wrong? Questions shouldn’t be wrong, it shouldn’t be wrong to want answers or, or explanations. Why won’t you just **tell** me?_

Not one of his finer moments, he admits. 

Time went on, the questions kept coming, and the apocalypse drew closer and closer. The antichrist was born, raised, lost, found, and finally grounded, and the world kept turning as it always had. 

Except, Crowley woke up _warm_. 

It wasn’t how he thought it would be. The demon had always assumed it would just be the sensation of being warm, but this was far better. This was contentment. Happiness. The world had been saved and he was finally allowed to be with the love of his existence (who loved him back, somehow, and that alone had prompted a silent prayer of thanks for the first time in a very long time). 

He cracked open his eyes and saw his angel next to him; not asleep - it would take some time to convince ( _tempt_ ) him to sleep, but reading a book. _Sense and Sensibility_. Crowley’s smile pulled his skin a bit tighter as he looked at him, properly _looked_ at him. Tartan pajamas that have probably been around since the thirties, reading spectacles that he certainly didn’t need, and a smile that matched his own. 

The sheets (Aziraphale’s sheets. They had been closer to the shop after the Ritz, and even if they hadn’t been, Crowley would’ve driven them there. As nice as his flat was, he had always preferred the hominess of the shop)(In all truthfulness, he preferred wherever Aziraphale was) were flannel tartan of course, soft and warm against his skin in a way he hadn’t experienced before. If Crowley had been a bit more awake, he might be able to sense the lingering smell of an angelic miracle, but he was still on the cusp of sleep and consciousness. 

Crowley had spent so long feeling so cold and alone that he made the executive decision to go back to sleep for a little. Aziraphale wouldn’t mind, surely, and the demon would wake the second his name left those lovely lips. 

As he felt himself tip over the edge of consciousness into sleep, he reached for Aziraphale and had the privilege of feeling a calloused hand atop his own before he drifted back off, feeling for the first time warm, safe, and loved.


End file.
